edge of erasure

i didn't off myself

I’m scared to post this,
but the girl hiding in my closet of ghosts (part 1)
is clawing her way out.
Ready to spill her ugly truth.

Edge of Erasure:
No, I didn’t off myself.
But I came close.

I used to be the fun girl.
The down for anything girl.
The let-me-get-you-off-so-I-don’t-have-to-feel girl.

Sex was my weapon.
My armor.
A way to fight and hide all at once.
And by far-
my favorite drug.
The fastest way to disappear without dying.
Though honestly,
death might’ve felt better.

Push me to the edge.
Wreck me reckless.
Until I surrender tears of mercy-
then leave.
Please, just leave.

And don’t speak,
on your way out.
I don’t want reminders
of another human in the room.

There weren’t.
Not really.

I wasn’t there either-
just a walking corpse
in smeared mascara
and shame.
With battle scars like spiritual leprosy.
Too ugly to be seen.
Too numb to be felt.
Too fat or too thin, depending on the day…
or the drug.

And I wanted all the drugs.
If you had them, I’d take you too.
Use you up, forget you after.
Every high ended the same:
on the edge of erasure.

It took years-
of cold folding chair circles and steps,
stories poured into styrofoam coffee cups,
shared in the bitter dregs-
for me to say:
I didn’t die.
I didn’t off myself.

I’m still here,
now oversharing into the abyss,
hoping it lands on someone else’s pain,
so we can link our scars and let go.

Still haunted.
But at least now…
I’m not one of the living dead.

🖤 Cyn, recovering from everything addict
aka the Bougie Hippie

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